SECTION: HALF EMPTY
STATEMENT OF PURPOSE: various sections
BUSINESS FOLDER. “Leather-look” vinyl with metal corners.
Comprising two document pockets. A $ pad and pen. Size 12 1/2"
x 9 3/4". Fully Guaranteed 1 yr. —Georges Perec, Life: A User’s
Manual.
The white in Mondrian’s paintings seems space, the bars objects.
The white, if regarded as a fine texture, can seem a surface.
This double function is obviously ambiguous, and is naturalistic.
Small elements and even large ones on an indefinite ground always
seem like objects in space, things in the world. They are points in
space and the space is an empty surround. —Donald Judd,
Complete Writings 1975–1986.
An idea I thought about
Became the things I do. —John Ashbery, “Five Pedantic Pieces.”
A SHEET OF BROWN PAPER OF ARBITRARY WIDTH
AND LENGTH OF TWICE THAT WIDTH WITH A
REMOVAL OF THE SAME PROPORTIONS GLUED TO
THE FLOOR. —Lawrence Weiner, WORKS.
Nota: number refer to discrete sheets
sheets are numerical, housed in three volumetrically equal boxes
boxes can contain an unequal number of sheets, depending on the
number of readers
individual items are labelled for re-installation
all items not contained in boxes are to be discarded after a
reasonable amount of time
each number focusses an entry and should be starred by the reader
all internal references to colors are to be relabeled in a timely manner
no outside works are irrelevant to re-making or re-writing the text
from a vantage point inside the work, multiple points of entry may be
construed
items in contiguity are considered apart
nothing is proximate
everything is exactly alike
whatever is described herein does not accompany the final text
a number of stairwells, fire doors, etc. etc. have been indicated in the
text
insufficient range can be remedied with the addition of further text
placement of rope, thread, staples, glue and other attachments are
not expressly dictated
you or someone are alone in the room
there is a box enclosed by a floor
the stairwell is behind you
the glass of water is near the rug
numerous blank spaces are indicated
instructions are entered
a ball is thrown unlike
a window is found alike
code:
butterfly:
I mentioned: I was confined in a single space
I did perform: I listened to whatever was requested
the heat has come on
somewhere, it has begun to snow
in Vermont. Sentences are to be repeated
the heat has come one, the years come and go
somewhere, it begins to rain, somewhere
it begins to be boring
If it is February, I wrote you a love letter
If it is February, you are listening at the door where snow is falling
gently into your blue hair, and the rosebuds I picked in early April
are pouring generously into the clothesline
Yes, it is like that
No, it is not like that
Chinese chair
Thing of winter, thing of recovery, thing of motion attached
To a clapboard, to a former president
to a buried rest, to a metallic bust
There is more tenderness, more in the box
I open it up and try to recover
The football is tossed and bobbled
She sews these notions in half
When it ends, the squares of recovery are even
The hand is touched with half a mint
The garden in winter what is it?
The planted santolina and thyme by the fountain what are they?
What is the bliss and the never native?
All along and tall
Wednesday, and a collection, foams backwards
Tuesday, and the bedtime goes, chewing the sun like a peanut
The box is filled with O’s, then
ringlets, perfume
Everything mounts the lover backwards
The box in the bread and the glass in the face. The recovery is in
pearls
The timezone and the clouds
overhang will power
I paint the time backwards, but it is useless
I take out the colors from everything, but it was useless
Nothing is black and nothing was even
Nothing is white and nothing is even
The shoes begin but did not
The aches are apparent to those who have
Worlds upon worlds, sequins upon sequins
in the restaurant outside there is a Chinese waiter
I asked for a glass of water
I could not breathe
Nothing is punished for this
Nothing is gained by this counterweight
One the sofa, the casettes and the music
and
* * *
Stars of fennel combine, lead track with fluster and ditches
The foreign battery and willows, down draft and circle of doors
X of pleats, X concrete runners
In adoration, this y for my clothing
The plan for restoration of service, a kitchen in monochromatics
I voyage into the dome, the colors blacken and decline
Whatever alters one half, a horse without visible color
Whatever reasons with numerals, a zone without moods
I hallucinated a compass, the lock pieces harbor an outlook of
indiscretion
In porcelain, the heart aborts from its hearing
Doors that were there, again and again
The windows I landed, useless and rushed
I have a name, it sleeps against skin
None of this touches sensation or highlights, removes dust from
the carpet
You and mine, wind chimes go rubber with cordouroy
You and they, pajamas linens and terrier
What are chairs they billow like hands at your side
An e, two sides of a lake = calendar
The siamese brush rises like smoke on its tissue of sex
I formally undo the tender hues of the bra
The frame is useless to spell, unresolved as a playground
The blend rises uselessly to leash its orbital daschund
Splendid, the flower attachment had the face of a man in a woman
The mouth glued in the plywood cabinets, the eye blinking back at
formica and sigh. The hands fly white as mine. The nails protrude
A pin prick of blood forms on the lip, no smaller than what I think
must be a needle
Of racing greyhounds and the sounds of mustard
And erasing
Where I lie down
There is an elbow
Everything is level
The flower and the face of a lover flower
The flower has not enough hands to touch me, the hands of the flower
Are too delicate to rub off my clothes with the blunt edges of petals
It takes seven more years
To take off my shirt. When I wake
This is remembered upside down
The skin performs the color of sand
Where is this summer
The limelight docile in the gauges aspire
Where is this summer
The limelight docile in the gauges expire
Corruptible coinage, bedstand wavers
Sobbies
Venus or Mars Clandestine
Distant door harp. Far flung suntan
The jamb of planets scolds these figurines
For a kiss to the outermost lobbies of Poe
I was so slow I taped my love to you like doughnuts
I was so slow I called you itchless in the portrait of my hurries
So long is a word of mystical aching
Going out is a bong of vegetal update
Let me begin
You do not always know what I am
Stars at morning one things of April half receding
Moons at evenings one thinks of Turquoise dishes from the
farthest counter
of soup knitted
oblivion clockwise
Nature usually mine
The city alive in thousands of paintings
Frick and Met
Byzantine Mosaics
Meanwhile, like a dish of solid alabaster
Two peacocks strum through the garden at the Cathedral of Saint
John’s
To be unaware of numerous losses, someone is standing upstairs
To be unaware of you, the flickering postcards at the museum
Fuzz something lovelier. I am half lazy from seeing you
And you are not resting something
Like a book of matches
On the kitchen counter. When I am alone
A second day appears
To stand
At a window
The smudges of prediciton
I am not finally realized by this recognition later
I feel the sometimes go
I feel like this sometimes go
With the box and its absence of pleasure or pain
So I lie: nothing is precious, a street filled with March
So I tell the truth: Nothing combined me to take off my clothes
And weep for a mouth I made
And deep for a south I laid with you
This, the form I take
The vegatative buildings and all the lakes of margarine fool
goodbye to the soul
A form taken by custard colored boats across a bandstand of
watery pistols
I tangoed with a blade of minute hands, Persia held a sprig of
thyme between my teeth
The Byzantine horses sleep for hundreds of years before their love
matures
Or a hero makes them hungry for a pizza
Each of us has a different reason, those incoherent, pestered with
daylight
Petered out for sleeping beside a glass of water in a motel room at
6 with the
Tablets just starting to come in
The curtains beefy with fever the fever heavy with beer
I could be married this year
Like the frame of painting, or the painting of a farm in Zanesville Ohio
I could not go so far (until)
A wish is sent into this newsprint
This is a box and the ardor of poses
Are you a movie or kite
I know whatever is abstract (variant)
The worldly breasts worn smooth from kissing
On Monday I wrote a poem. This was its nature
It repeats the day that it was: to be called an apparition
Of pollution. It had an earthly section
I recycled it (I), It spoke a title to you: